Today, the idea of a good life appears to be
A distant dream,
As for the past fortnight I have felt,
And still do feel, so much on edge,
That I am unable to think clearly
Where I am going or what I am saying.
I have felt so overwhelmed from worrying
That I have been unable to eat or drink,
And struggled like fury to relax or get off to sleep
And climb above an ever-growing heap
Of crap, beneath which I feel as though I am suffocating,
Where I feel exhausted and slowly dying.
A good life to me would be one free
From inner-turmoil, i.e., the chains of depression and shackles of anxiety
Which, today, paralyse my thoughts
And bind me to hour-upon-hour of despair;
A good life would afford me much-needed respite
An end to stumbling or wallowing in darkness, rather than walking in light.